


therapeutic, cathartic bullshit

by cptsuke



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3333422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsuke/pseuds/cptsuke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there's no forgiving and forgetting some shit</p><p>(ian is committed, mickey visits)</p>
            </blockquote>





	therapeutic, cathartic bullshit

**Author's Note:**

> vague references to past noncon  
> kind of all over the place because so are my emotions YOU BASTARDS  
> headcanon that along with his bipolar disorder, Ian's carrying around some pretty nasty ptsd because there's something horrific in the way he flippantly refers to the time he was missing,  
> (basically im trying to get over 505)

"It wasn't so bad," Ian says, voice cracking cheerily. "it just hurt."

 

The voice is all smiles and _fake, fake, fake_ cheer like he's talking about something small, like maybe the L was running late or some shit, not _this_.

 

It doesn't sound like anything Mickey recognizes at all.

 

Not husky like Gallagher's voice used to go when he spoke about things he _felt_ , back when they first started fooling around, or the sharp smirking tone he used later as a shield, nor the even voice that said _I'm going, I'm leaving_.

 

It's the voice of the creature Mickey brought back home because it was wearing Ian's face.

 

 _No_ , Mickey curses at himself, it's the _thing_ \- the _illness_ \- that's all, Ian's still in there. He has to believe that. Has to believe that behind all this shit is something he can get through to, even in the moments when he never wants to see Ian again.

 

The thing is, Mickey doesn't think he should be listening to this, wants to fucking cover his ears and scream until everything bleeds away, wants to shake Ian because he'd never tell Mickey these things. Not like this, not airily like it doesn't matter that people dosed him high and held him down. Not cheerily like he doesn't care either way that he'd said no a thousand different ways to deaf ears until he just didn't bother anymore.

 

But the medication - _always the fucking medication_ \- the quacks are trialing now leave the redhead twitching and bursting at the seams, ready to let slip any horror with a smile and a sunny fucking disposition.

 

 

 _It's better_ , Fiona tells him. Better than the first weeks where Ian had crawled inside himself - terrified or paranoid or something in between - or the week Ian's just come out of, where he'd been so fucking _down_ , nails ripping unnoticed at his arms as he'd stared into fucking nothing - Mickey had witnessed the tail end of that fun adventure when he finally pulled himself together enough to face what the world had made of Ian.

 

Mickey's not proud for missing those weeks, but he's not sure he regrets it either. He's still so fucking angry.

 

His hands are a constant ache of abused skin and swelling knuckles. He hurts so much, the feeling in his chest leaves him so breathless he wants to tear open his rib cage and shred the mess that's left in there to pieces. But instead Mickey ignores what feels like a sucking chest wound and sits beside Ian and listens to him talk on the good days - like today - keeps him company the days when he picks silently at the loose threads from his sleeves.

 

 

Mickey had passed the eldest Gallagher on his way in; Fiona leaning against the outside wall smoking with shaking hands. She'd waved, given him the same small smile that never reaches her eyes that she always gives him in this place. She always looked equal parts pleased and surprised to see him. Now, after hearing Ian, he wonders if Fiona had suffered through the same confessions. Seen her kid brother smile like it was fucking okay to have nights he didn't remember and the mornings that always followed where he had woke up hurt and lost in everyway. Now Mickey wonders if her hands hadn't been shaking from something altogether different from the cold.

 

"I let him down." She'd told him once and Mickey didn't have the heart to tell her it wasn't exactly a fucking exclusive club, everyone - Ian included - had let Ian down.

 

 

"The doc said I should tell someone." Ian almost sounds like himself, Mickey closes his eyes and pretends for a moment they're back, some place safe and _theirs_. "So I'm telling you."

 

But there isn't any place of theirs left anymore; their room has been in a constant state of destruction since _then_ , Mickey's thrown more bottles - shot more bullets, punched more things - destroyed more things in the past month than he ever remembered doing before.

 

 

He thinks of Ian - the way his hand had quivered with rage as the tip of the knife pressed against Kenyatta's throat, his eyes burning like the only thing that would fix his rage would be painting the Milkovitch kitchen with Kenyatta's blood - Mickey thinks about it a lot. Thinks maybe he should've pushed harder, pushed better, found the magical fucking string of words that would make Ian see himself like Mickey was seeing him.

 

But Ian's still speaking, head bowed low, talking to the floor in front of Mickey's boots, his voice going sincere like he's trying to convince Mickey.

 

"There's no point, no point to _me_. I've fucked everything up. Everything good."

 

 _"_ You should leave. _"   me_

 

 _"_ You could be happy. _"   with someone else_

 

Mickey bites back the _YOU RUINED ME_ that screams in his mind - he's yelled it before - snotty and crying like a girl - on one of the worst days. But he's silent this time. Maybe he's had time to think. Maybe he's just more fucking exhausted than ever.

 

But he knows - fucking _knows -_ there will never be another like Gallagher. Not for him.

 

"Shut the fuck up," He says, feels a little guilty that maybe it's the first thing he's said today. "Doc says you'll feel better when your meds even out. Then you can come home."

 

 _Come home,_ he says, like it was a sure thing, because Mickey's not sure it is anymore. He never wants to feel like he had that day. Like the ground has fallen away from beneath his feet and in that moment he knew he was falling and would not recover. He wonders if that was how Ian had felt all those times Mickey's size nines had stomped all over his happiness.

 

 _It's not the same _ _,___ he thinks, this was worse. But it didn't matter, it was all shitty, neither of them were right anymore.

 

"I can't, I'm not safe, I'm not." Ian's words falter, eyes darting from side to side like he's trying to find the right words, like he's terrified of leaving here, like he's fucking pissed that Mickey doesn't get it.

 

For a moment Mickey hears Ian's angry tone and thinks the day's going to turn ugly, like it has some of the visits before. Ian angrily throwing words at anyone before him, truths and past shit sharpened and honed to wound in the way that only loved ones can. Meant to hurt hard and fast, meant chase away anyone close, make them shy away and leave.

 

Mickey's ashamed to say it's worked before - but he's not the only one whose fled before Ian's weaponised words, he's seen more than one Gallagher storm out of this place with wet eyes and tightly pressed white lips.

 

Trying to drive them away, Mickey guesses, adding what little he knows of the bitch who birthed Ian to the long ago memory of the kid Ian used to be at the beginning of all this with a voice that was breaking on Mickey's doorstep. Drive them away before he became Monica.

 

But instead his shoulders just slump as he runs a hand through overlong hair "Jesus Mickey, I'm not _safe _ _."___

 

"Safe? For fuck's sake, you tried to take the kid to disneyland. Real fucking traumatising Gingerlocks." Micket mocks, trivialising that worst day of his life and he has no idea why.

 

But he does, fuck he does.

 

Just like he knows why he didn't call the cops that day, that he hadn't been able to tell himself that he wouldn't kill Ian when they finally caught up to him.

 

He had honestly not been able to tell if he'd been more afraid for Ian or Yev that day, even now he still can't seem to find the answer, part of him knowing - fucking _ _ _ _ __knowing_ \- _____ Ian would never hurt Yev, and the rest not trusting a fucking thing the kid said or did.

 

 

 

Mickey's reminded of a couple weeks ago; Ian coming out of his fugue, Mickey feeling like he was being torn apart just sitting near him.

 

"I'm never going to be right." He'd said facing the shitty winter sunlight filtering through safety glass. "I hate,"

 

He'd paused, stopped; eyes closing, head tilting as his chin jutted out. His hands shook but that time Mickey didn't think it had anything to with his manic state.

 

Ian had looked down at them, that steely murderous look passing across his face as his jaw clenched, muscles bunching angrily.

 

When Ian had spoke again his voice had been thick with suppressed anger.

 

"I _hate _ _ _ _."_____

 

And Mickey doesn't think there's just one thing that Ian hates anymore.

 

The two of them make a stupid fucking pair.

 

But maybe that's okay too.

 

 

"It's cold out." Ian says out of nowhere, eyes wondering to Mickey's car out in the lot.

 

Mickey feels a momentary pang of guilt for Iggy, stuck outside, waiting in the car for him. Because Mickey couldn't trust himself behind the wheel of a car after visiting Ian, not after the first time. Besides Iggy was the only one that didn't question why Mickey kept coming back, didn't seem to care how long it took, and Mickey could trust him to stop him if Mickey came out with the need to firebomb something.

 

"He'll wait, good ol' Saint Iggy." Mickey says; laughing mirthlessly mostly so he doesn't start crying, because he's not sure he can let Ian back in and he's not sure he knows how to live without him either. Everything's fucked.

 

Mickey's fists ache from being clenched so tight but he doesn't dare loosen them; too afraid he's going to punch Ian. Punch him or pull him close and never fucking let go.

 

Or both.

 

He doesn't fucking know, and for the first time he thinks maybe he can be okay with that.

 

 

"You can't forgive me." Ian says. "Not after what I did." 

 

Mickey scoffs, like Ian hadn't welcomed Fiona back with open arms after all the shit she'd pulled, like he hadn't forgiven Mickey and held no grudge for the last two years of absolute shit. Like Ian wasn't worth of a second chance.

 

"You can't forgive me." Ian repeats to the floor.

 

"I don't!" Mickey snaps before he can think better of it. 

 

He eyes Ian warily, looking for signs that he's fucked Ian's mental state up some more. But Ian's just leaning forward like he's hanging onto every move that Mickey makes, actually paying him attention instead of talking to space near him, or the floor beneath his feet.

 

And maybe that's where they've been fucking up. Treating Gallagher equal parts like a fragile child and asshole pariah that fucked everything up with one roll of the genetic dice, forgetting the tough little bastard that was buried beneath all this shit.

 

"I don't." He repeats quieter, calmer, his words coming out shy. "But maybe we can work on it."

 

 

Ian looks at Mickey with too big eyes, hands - body, mouth - still for the first time in what seems like forever. He doesn't apologize - doesn't say he's sorry - for which Mickey is glad, he doesn't think he can handle it, the thing between them too big for a simple _ _ _ _ __I'm sorry_._ _ _ _ _

  

"How the fuck did I become the responsible mature adult?" He laughs bitterly, but wonder of wonders so does Ian. And not the grating loud laugh of his manic self. A quieter, more genuine one.

 

Mickey stares at the boy across from him; frozen by this glimpse of _ _ _ _ __Ian_. _____ Not the Ian that had vibrated around like he'd been permanently attached to electrical cable, nor the Ian he'd found laying in the snow. Maybe it's not the sweet smiled Ian from the days of the Kash'N'Grab, but there's a light in his green eyes that's been missing - and _fuck_ how did Mickey ever not fucking notice it's loss?

 

Maybe - _maybe_ , Mickey thinks - it's not all fucked.

 

And Mickey does something he's never dared to do before.

 

He hopes.

**Author's Note:**

> fair warning i listened to We are Broken by This, The Silent War from this - http://archiveofourown.org/works/2377904 - playlist almost on constant repeat.  
> (and tbh i highly reccommend the series that inspired it)


End file.
